


coffee break

by nightcalling



Category: Ted Lasso (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Multi, Post-Season/Series 01, Pre-Poly, minor appearances by other characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28440894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcalling/pseuds/nightcalling
Summary: “What’s this?” Keeley asks.Roy wrinkles his nose when he makes out that familiar, tidy handwriting. “Says right there it’s from that prick, doesn’t it?”Three things that Jamie gives Keeley, and one that he gives Roy.
Relationships: Keeley Jones/Roy Kent/Jamie Tartt
Comments: 10
Kudos: 49





	coffee break

**Author's Note:**

> The dates I use for the fixtures in this fic are completely made up, though I did reference the IRL 19/20 and 20/21 seasons to make them at least semi-reasonable. 
> 
> I hope you’re all staying warm and safe!

1

_2020, May 10 - night of Richmond vs Manchester City_

At some point between the end of the match and being transported to the hospital, Roy stops feeling sorry for himself long enough to take inventory. He’s been poked and prodded, x-rayed and MRI-ed, and shuffled from room to room more times than he can count, all by different members of the hospital hierarchy.

The rest of the team, Sam and Isaac and Colin and everyone, had tried to barrel in during the process, but Lasso had ushered them out. That man may be a big ball of annoyingly endearing energy, but if there’s one skill that all managers have in common, it’s knowing when a bloke just wants to be left the fuck alone.

Roy’s not technically alone at the moment, having been told to stay put on a rather comfortable bed by the last nurse who saw him. Keeley is here by his side as she’s always been, not just since they’d started this thing, but since the first day he’d met her. She’d walked into the Richmond locker room at the beginning of the season, attached to Jamie’s hip and looking positively radiant. In retrospect, he should’ve known that she’d manage to wiggle her way under his skin with every second spent in close proximity.

It took some time to come to terms with the strange lurch of his stomach, the slightest twinge of his heart, but now that they’re doing this for real, it’s… reassuring. Keeley is his anchor, a solid body that’s tougher than he’s ever been throughout his entire life. Right now, she’s holding on for them both as the doctor looks Roy in the eye, an indication that whatever she’s about to say is serious with a capital S.

“Surgery to mend your torn ACL, three months of rehabilitative therapy, a brace and crutches whenever you’re moving.” The doctor puts down her charts and pauses for dramatic emphasis. “Plus, at least another six to nine months before your knee approaches normal functioning.”

“Normal.” Keeley pronounces the word slowly and squeezes Roy’s hand. “Normal’s good, right?”

“Normal’s fantastic,” Roy agrees. “But I’ve a feeling the good doc’s overselling it.”

The doctor—Ashford, her nametag says—sighs. “You’re not wrong. The ‘normal’ I’m talking about would be a significant change from your current life.”

Roy can read between the lines. “How long before I can return to the pitch?”

“If you’re wanting to take a leisurely midday stroll around the perimeter, you can return anytime after you can walk without painkillers,” Dr. Ashford says without missing a beat. She’s surely given this speech enough times to recite it in her sleep. “But actually playing a game? I have doubts you’ll be able to hold up long enough during training.”

“But lots of players have recovered after an injury like this, haven’t they?” Keeley asks, concerned in a way that makes her nose scrunch up and her eyebrows furrow. Roy wants to trace his finger across her skin, iron out the wrinkles.

“Yes, but he wouldn’t be healing from a new wound. He’s torn open an old one, and those are more difficult to overcome. I’m not saying it’s impossible to play again, but it would be…” Dr. Ashford picks her next words carefully. “It would be a challenge.”

Roy leans his head back and lets himself sink into the pillow. He’s not an idiot. His body knew the moment he made the tackle that it’d likely take the last bit of gas he had left in him. He supposes it just took a moment for his stubborn brain to catch up.

Besides, as the good doctor said, it’s not impossible to recover. Maybe he’ll never play a full game again, maybe he’s destined to live out the rest of his career as an 80th-minute substitute, but that wouldn’t be the worst fate, all things considered.

He’s always loved a challenge.

Keeley has gone silent, he realises. He turns his head to look at her profile, still held proudly high.

“Thanks, doc,” he says. “Anything else on the agenda tonight?”

Dr. Ashford smiles and shakes her head. “We can discuss options tomorrow. I’ll contact Mr. Lasso and Ms. Welton so we can have a proper chat. Please rest up, and think a bit about what you might want to do. But don’t think too hard, alright?” With that, she grips Keeley on the shoulder and leaves the room to them.

They’re up on the third floor, tucked away in one of the corner wings to allow them privacy. Special VIP footballer perks, Dr. Ashford had said jokingly, though it hadn’t really been a joke. Roy recalls being in a similar room a long time ago as a much younger man. There was the same sense of dread, the same sanitised smell, the same skyline view.

Well. There is one thing that’s different, apart from his age.

Keeley folds her arms on the bed and lays her head against them, tilting her eyes up. They glow dully underneath the bright yellow lights and the artificial white of the ceiling, which seems like a contradiction. He hasn’t ever faced a version of Keeley that doesn’t shine, and the realisation that it’s him who’s forcing the raincloud on her hurts more than his knee.

“You can talk to me,” Roy says. “I’m not gonna break.”

Keeley keeps her eyes on him and blinks once before smiling, gentle and teasing. “You sure about that? Being the fragile old man you are?”

Roy returns her smile on instinct, despite the fact that he can’t come anywhere close to her sunny disposition, even when it’s muted. He stays silent, waiting.

Keeley twists her lips, her fingers tapping a light rhythm against the bed frame. “You’ve seen Jamie’s interview, haven’t you?”

He has, in fact, not seen any interview since leaving the pitch, let alone Jamie’s. “No,” he says. Then, after giving it some thought, adds, “Should I have?”

“Oh.” Keeley laughs, a nice, warm sound inside the chilly hospital room. “Never mind, then.”

Roy sets his jaw, a tight click that’s only matched by the memory of his knee knocking against bone. “What’d that arse do now? Claimed he single-handedly won Man City the game?”

Keeley laughs again, her voice echoing inside Roy’s ears. “If that’s true, you definitely made it real fucking hard for him. But—no. He, um. I was just wondering ‘cause he texted me earlier and I didn’t really know what he was getting at until I saw him speak to the press and—” She puts up a hand. “You know what? You don’t need this right now. You should rest, I’ll—”

“Hey, hold on.” Roy catches Keeley’s hand in his, fitting her smaller palm against his larger one. “What’d he say? Do I need to kick his arse?”

“Nobody’s kicking anybody’s arse,” Keeley says, looking at him… fondly? He’s still getting used to reading her facial expressions, especially positive ones directed at him even though he hadn’t done anything to warrant them. It’s confusing, to say the least. “Do you two do anything other than bicker? Does he activate your Pavlovian fight response or something?”

Roy wrinkles his nose. “Pavlovian?”

“See? You idiots are exactly the same.” Keeley leans over before Roy can complain and plants a kiss on his cheek. “He just texted me ‘sorry,’ okay? Happy now?”

Roy considers this as Keeley presses another kiss to his forehead. “Sorry?”

“Don’t worry your pretty head over it, you’ll injure yourself again.”

“It’s my knee that’s fucked up, not my head.”

“I don’t know if that’s entirely true, footballers are all fucked up in the head as far as I can tell.” Keeley grins, her smile back in full force. “Now _sleep_ , love, before I get that scary doctor back in here to smack you.”

“You wouldn’t,” Roy says, mostly to get her to stay a millisecond longer.

“Don’t try anything cute. I am buying some shitty hospital coffee, and when I get back you’d better be asleep.” Keeley eyes him before kissing him a third time on the back of his hand, then disappears out the door with a swish of her ponytail.

Roy tries to obey. He’s practising how to push down his self-destructive tendencies and replace them with more nurturing actions that are kinder on his body and his mind, but it’s a steep learning curve, to put it generously.

After holding his eyes shut for around five minutes, he starts turning onto his right side because that’s always been his preferred sleeping side, and lying on his back all night has properly cocked up his sleeping habits, except then he remembers that, right, his knee is _also cocked up_ and turning would add pressure onto it and make it even worse.

He opens his eyes and lies there for another five minutes, blinking up at the very white ceiling before boredom and impatience win him over. He grabs his phone—which Keeley had managed to convince the doctor to let him keep somehow, whatever, she’s magical, let’s move on—off of the adjacent nightstand and boots up his Twitter feed. The same video is scattered all across his timeline, with Jamie Tartt’s big face plastered over the thumbnail image. He scrolls past it about four times before he caves in to equal parts irritation and curiosity and taps on the play button hovering over Jamie’s nose.

“Congratulations on the win tonight,” an offscreen reporter announces. “You were a vital part of Manchester City’s victory with your crucial assist late in stoppage time.”

Jamie grins. “Hey, they didn’t put me in the starting eleven for nothing, am I right?”

The reporter laughs, either out of politeness or because she’s actually charmed by Jamie. Roy wouldn’t be surprised either way. “Let’s talk about the goal that wasn’t,” she continues. “You were very close to scoring one yourself before Roy Kent made that brave challenge on you.”

Jamie shrugs, a lazy roll of his right shoulder. “For a man of his age, I suppose something like that could be considered brave.”

“Say that to my face, you twat,” Roy mutters under his breath, but he lets the video play on.

“It’s well-known that you and Kent didn’t have the smoothest of relationships—” _Relationship?_ Roy thinks incredulously. “—on or off the pitch. You nearly drew a red for instigating a fight earlier in the season. Some argue you were fortunate to walk away with a yellow.”

This is a really pushy reporter. She should’ve been kicked out. What the hell was Manchester City’s PR staff doing?

“Is there a question in there somewhere?” Jamie asks, keeping his smile steady. He’s decent at this part of the job. Roy, on the other hand, is keen to quip a rude one-liner and leave the conversation at that.

“Yes,” the reporter says. “Inquiring minds want to know, what were you thinking when Kent left the pitch tonight amidst the chants of Richmond fans?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. I wasn’t thinking anything.” Jamie pauses, seemingly mulling something over. “What’s it matter? We’re not teammates anymore. Like you said, we didn’t get on.”

If Roy didn’t know better, he’d say that Jamie’s deflecting, and not in the prickish way he typically behaves on a day-to-day basis. Sure, the kid boasts a holier-than-thou attitude more often than not—and, as the paps like to remind the rest of the country, has the traditional good looks to pull it off. Not that Roy’s agreeing.

The point is, after being on the same pitch for multiple training sessions and getting into countless fights inside the locker room for nearly a year, he can tell when Jamie is touting nonsense. Right now, the way Jamie squares his shoulders and juts his chin forward, almost in an attempt to make himself taller, is sounding all the alarms indicating that he’s very much not alright. Roy doesn’t get why until the reporter asks her next question.

“Isn’t that how Kent got his first severe injury eight years ago?”

Jamie almost— _almost_ —visibly shuts down. All of a sudden, Roy is feeling irritated on Jamie’s behalf. _Say something cheeky and overly confident like the public loves you for and get the fuck out of there_ , Roy thinks indignantly.

When Jamie doesn’t respond, the reporter clarifies, “During the Champions League final against Bayern, Kent made a similar tackle on an opponent striker and guaranteed Chelsea a tie that led them to a penalty shootout, and—”

“I know. I watched the match and—” Jamie inhales sharply. “Why’re you asking me this?”

_Don’t give her more ammunition._

“What were you thinking when Kent left the pitch tonight?” the reporter repeats.

_Don’t answer that._

“I already told you, nothing.”

_Leave now._

“Let me rephrase the question. What were you feeling?”

The pixelated version of Jamie on his phone narrows his eyes, the precise second that Roy’s knee begins to throb, a sharp pain that rips through his ligaments and seeps into his bones, so deep that no surgery could possibly cure.

“My team’s waiting for me,” Jamie says curtly, then ducks out of view.

Roy doesn’t even wait for the trailing seconds of the video to finish playing before abruptly shutting off his phone. His reflection on the darkened screen reveals his wild eyes, almost as wild as he’d felt when he’d made the challenge on Jamie. At that moment, he hadn’t thought about anything at all, had acted on pure instinct. There was an opponent striker, an enemy infiltrating deep into their territory, and it was on him to defend their home. That was it, nothing more. It absolutely had nothing to do with the fact that it happened to be Jamie on the receiving end, nor the fact that he couldn’t stand the bloke most of the time. He’s a professional. He can keep personal feelings out of it.

And yet.

He turns his phone back on, waiting impatiently for the Apple logo to clear. After it does, he scrolls all the way down his contacts until he reaches the J’s. It’s courtesy to have your teammates’ contact information should anything come up, though he and Jamie are technically ex-teammates now, so he probably should’ve deleted the number weeks ago.

When he scrolls all the way to the beginning of the K’s, blinking down at Keeley’s name, he’s confused for a second before recalling that he hadn’t actually saved Jamie’s number under his real name.

He continues scrolling down to the P’s and chuckles to nobody in particular before tapping on _Prick_. The last time they texted was—well, never, as it turns out. The only evidence of correspondence between them is an ancient phone call that had been placed in the early days of Jamie’s loan, back when Roy had been naive enough to think that the new kid can’t be as bad as the rumours say, his ego can’t possibly be _that_ inflated.

Anyway. He hovers his thumbs over the keyboard, and—

Draws a massive blank. What did he want to say? What _does_ he want to say? This is the problem with thinking and not acting. Thinking muddies everything up and renders simple things difficult.

 _I’m not dead yet_ , he considers. _You’ve nothing to be sorry for_ , is the truth. But both of those options are too personal, considering their… relationship.

Great, now that pushy reporter is getting to him. Fuck this.

He wavers a bit before dashing off, _Why’d you apologise to Keeley and not to me?_

It doesn’t feel quite like the right decision, but he’s tired, he’s aching, and he’s done with this. He growls at his phone, then shuts it back off before banishing it to the nightstand.

***

2

_2020, August 2 - matchday 1 of 46 in the 2020/21 EFL Championship_

He forgets all about the incident until three months later, standing in the middle of Keeley’s kitchen and finishing off his toast the morning of the Championship kickoff. Keeley’s gone in early— _really_ early, as in, sunrise-still-yet-to-come-up, 5 AM early—to help field the press for the opening match. There’s been a lot of buzz during the offseason about Richmond’s return to the Championship, rivaling the amount they’d gotten when Lasso was first announced as their new manager. He’s not sure if that’s a good sign of things to come or not. It probably isn’t, but as the gaffer always says, they’ve just got to believe in themselves and bring their A-game.

They’re playing Coventry City tonight. He’ll be sitting in the VIP box with Keeley, the furthest he’ll have been from the pitch for an official match in a while. It’s a slight sore spot. Luckily, he’s acquired new anger management techniques in addition to a strict training regimen for his knee, but that’s more Keeley’s doing than anything else.

He’s not worried about the boys. From what he could tell from the clubhouse’s fitness room, they’ve been working their arses off, and he’s got a particular feeling in his gut, the kind that slowly works itself to a win. Kickoff isn’t until 19:00. He won’t be able to see Keeley until dinner, so he’s a little antsy, being stuck with a lot of time and nothing to occupy it with.

Nothing aside from his morning drills, that is. Some stretches to keep his muscles loose, a few grandma-paced laps around the neighbourhood to keep his legs moving, and thirty minutes of breathing exercises to maintain a steady heartbeat.

It’s not bad. It’s just really fucking boring. He’s gone through this entire process before, but that had been pre-Keeley, back when he hadn’t known what it meant to miss someone before they’re even gone. Still, he keeps with the regimen, knows that his patience will reward him with a few minutes of football sometime in the future, however distant it may be.

He’s taking a break when the doorbell rings.

“Hello, sir,” the courier says cheerfully. “This the residence of Miss Keeley Jones?”

“Yeah. She’s not here right now, but I’m her boy—her boyfriend,” Roy says clunkily. It’s not as though it’s the first time he’s thought it, but it’s definitely the first time he’s said it to someone that’s a stranger.

“Brilliant. Would you mind signing here, please?” The courier conjures up a clipboard out of thin air along with a pen, tilting both items in Roy’s direction.

A few seconds later, Roy is left standing on the front steps with a small parcel in his hands, wrapped in brown paper and tied with thick rope. The parcel isn’t very heavy, nor is it very large, about the size of one of those feedback boxes that Nate makes all the time, but the sender’s name is enough to make the dreaded thing feel like dead weight.

Against his better judgement, he whips out his phone and snaps a photo of the parcel, sending it along with a message.

_There better not be anything kinky in this._

He doesn’t expect an answer, so he’s closed the door and tossed the phone onto a table when it buzzes noisily against the wood. It’s never sounded that obnoxious before. He wonders if that’s a new feature of the latest model, the ability to customise vibrations based on how much the sender annoys you.

He picks up the phone.

**[Prick] _Calm your tits before you hurt yourself._**

Roy scoffs. So, the great Jamie Tartt doesn’t bother responding to questions but is quick to defend himself from potential accusations. Typical.

His phone buzzes again, tickling his palms.

**[Prick] _Anyway it’s not for you, it’s for her. Keep your hands away._**

_For someone as childish as you, you don’t know how to take a joke._

**[Prick] _Piss off. Some of us have better things to do than laze around all day._**

_Like what, putting too much product in your hair?_

**[Prick] _Like clearing a space on my shelf for the Premier and Champions League trophies._**

**[Prick] _And fuck off, my hair looks great. You’re jealous ‘cause you’re going bald._**

_Idiot. You can’t take the trophies home with you_ , Roy sends, deliberately ignoring Jamie’s dig.

**[Prick] _Don’t you have a match to prepare for?_**

**[Prick] _Oh, wait. You don’t. But guess who does? I do. We’re kicking Arsenal arse tomorrow._**

**[Prick] _Get it? ARSEnal._**

Roy doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t.

_Is that supposed to be funny?_

**[Prick] _Fuck you, I’m fucking hilarious._**

**[Prick] _You can’t appreciate it and that’s what makes you old._**

**[Prick] _Toodle loo._**

That bastard hung up on him. Over _text_.

Roy glares at the vertical bar blinking back at him mockingly. If it could speak, he imagines it’d say something like, _haha, look how easily Jamie riles you up, look who’s definitely a baby child._

He considers tossing the parcel into the rubbish bin or burning it to a crisp, but neither of those options is befitting of a grown man. He settles for stuffing it into the corner of the sofa and burying it underneath one of the fluffy pink throw pillows.

Out of sight, out of mind, as they say.

He sits down on the other end of the sofa and returns to his breathing exercises.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but the room is still bright when a hand shakes him awake. He gets about one millisecond to properly return to his senses before Keeley’s shoving something into his face.

“What’s this?” Keeley asks.

Roy wrinkles his nose when he makes out that familiar, tidy handwriting. “Says right there it’s from that prick, doesn’t it?”

“Hmm.” Keeley undoes the rope with her nails and pries the box open. She raises her eyebrows. “Huh.”

“What is it?” He leans his head forward, then hesitates. “Wait, what’re you doing home?”

Keeley waves a hand vaguely. “Lunch.”

“Lunch? Thought we were meeting for dinner, didn’t we say—”

“Five, at that Italian place, yeah.”

Whatever’s inside the box must be endlessly fascinating. “Do I need to burn it after all?” he says.

“What?” Keeley snaps her head up, concerned. “Don’t be so dramatic. It’s just some biscuits.”

Bloody hell? Roy hooks a finger over the edge of the box and tilts the opening down. There’s a colourful assortment in there—custard creams, chocolate digestives, shortbread fingers, even jammie dodgers. He looks closer at a smaller clear package sticking out from underneath the pile.

Keeley follows his eyes and picks up the package. “Rakusen’s Ginger Crunch Biscuits,” she reads. “Isn’t this that thing you like?”

The first time he tore his ACL, he’d been so in shock that he’d refused to eat anything for twenty-four hours. His sister finally got him to budge after practically buying out the biscuit aisle of the hospital’s gift shop and laying out her haul all over his bed, forcing him to pick something from the selection. He’s not really a biscuit type of bloke, but there was something about those ginger nuts, and every man has his weakness.

“No,” he denies.

Keeley turns the package around. “Yeah, yeah it is.”

Back then, he’d briefly mentioned the biscuit incident during an interview about one month into his rehabilitation. Rakusen started selling a fuck ton of biscuits after that, apparently.

That was years ago, though. He’d thought people had forgotten about it, especially now that he’s too old and too much of an afterthought in the football world. He’s practically a fossil at this point.

It bothers him, on some of the more subpar days. Nobody wants to be relegated to the side, especially in favour of young and cocky hotshots. But if being a part of Richmond has taught him anything, especially during the past few months, it’s that all you need to stay relevant is to have a few people who genuinely love and care about you.

“It really isn’t,” he says.

“You’re a terrible liar.” Keeley tosses the package at him. It hits him in the chest and tumbles noisily into his lap.

He looks up and notices her staring at him. Not in a mean or judgemental way, but in a careful and thoughtful manner, like she has something she really wants to say but isn’t sure if she should say it.

“What,” he says flatly.

“Nothing. Nice of him to send that along, innit?”

“It’s a coincidence.”

Keeley crosses her arms, which is impressive considering she has a box of biscuits in her possession.

“It is,” he insists.

“Sure it is,” Keeley agrees, but Roy has a feeling that she’s doing that thing where she says one thing but means exactly the opposite.

Whatever. He picks up the pack of ginger nuts and rips open the plastic. It’s lunchtime, and he’s starving. Fuck his diet.

They bring the box of biscuits to the match. Richmond shuts out Coventry City with a 5-0 win.

On matchday 1 of the Premier League the next night, Manchester City defeats Arsenal 2-1, with none other than Jamie Tartt scoring the winning goal in the 75th minute off of a beauty of a pass from De Bruyne. Leno had no chance of saving that.

 _What a screamer_ , Roy texts Jamie, surprised at how much he means it. He can acknowledge a good goal when he sees one, and Jamie had launched the beast from three or four yards outside of the edge of the box, untouched all the way to the back of the net.

He doesn’t get a reply. Not a surprise. Jamie’s probably ignoring him. Or out getting drunk with his teammates. Possibly both.

Later around 3 AM, when he wakes up to take a piss, he notices a notification flashing on his phone.

**[Prick] _Just doing what I do best._**

Roy grins despite himself. What a prick.

***

3

_2021, February 8 - week before the 2020/21 UEFA Champions League round of 16_

Six months into the season, and Richmond remain in the top 4 of the Championship table with 60 points. They’re currently sandwiched between Reading, at 58, and Norwich City, who are at the top with 65 and haven’t been knocked off since they beat Richmond back in November.

Roy blames it on the VAR officials. They’d awarded Norwich a late penalty even though Sam had barely nicked an opponent during an 89th minute corner piece. The poor lad had run about the pitch lifelessly for the last five minutes of added time, and kept hanging his head for the entire next day’s training. It had gotten so bad that even Lasso’s tried and true optimism playbook couldn’t cheer Sam up until Ms. Welton, of all people, suggested they host a Harry Potter marathon that night.

“It’s a long story,” she had simply said when the entire team, even Lasso, looked at her incredulously. But Sam had immediately perked up, and it had been good for boosting team morale, and Roy can’t deny the carryover effect it had when Sam ended up pocketing a hat trick against Watford the following weekend.

Since then, things have been going pretty smoothly. Richmond are still in second place, and Roy is still sticking it out with Keeley in the VIP booth, but at least it doesn’t hurt when he walks for extended periods anymore. Truth be told, he’s over the fucking moon.

That’s why he calls Lasso, asking for the day off. Lasso all but shushes him and tells him off for even thinking he’d say no, and for trying to come to training in the first place. He calls Ms. Welton next, hoping to steal Keeley away from promotional duties.

“Planning something nice, are we?” Ms. Welton teases.

“Something like that,” Roy says, not even bothered by her insinuating tone.

Ms. Welton hums knowingly. “That sounds promising. You better show that girl a good time.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He hangs up in a fantastic mood.

Keeley’s bewildered gasp when he lays the VIP passes out on the kitchen table in the middle of breakfast could be heard all the way down the street.

“How’d you get these?” she asks through a mouthful of eggs, picking the passes up and holding them against the light. “Are these even real? Who’d you shag to manage it?”

Roy pretends to be offended. “I didn’t shag anyone. Someone over at The Guardian owed me.”

Keeley shrieks in delight and downs the rest of her orange juice in one go. “Well, what’re we waiting for? Let’s go!”

Traffic isn’t awful because it’s past the morning rush, so it’s about an hour’s commute to the newly opened Disneyland London. Even so, there’s a significant line queued up at the ticketing booth, with people of all ages waiting to get in.

Roy leads Keeley directly to the front of the entrance, feeling a little smug when he flashes their VIP passes and cuts past all the regular visitors and their jealous looks. Professional footballer or not, nobody gives a shit when someone gets to go into Disneyland before you.

Keeley slaps him on the upper arm after the guard waves them in. “I saw that. You’re such a bastard.”

“Who, me?” Roy says innocently. “I just can’t wait to meet all of the Disney princesses.”

Keeley plays along. “Oh yeah? Who’s your favourite?”

“You’re the one who’s dating me,” Roy points out. “You should know the answer to that.”

Even though he can move around fine again, Dr. Ashford had told him that he’s not allowed to participate in activities that could potentially strain his muscles.

“Guess that rules out sex,” Keeley had said matter-of-factly.

“There are some things that don’t require that much effort from me,” he’d retorted. And that had been that.

Unfortunately, he can’t control the speed of the roller coasters or the height of the drops, so he’s stuck shopping around the kiddie rides. Keeley stays with him even though he tells her to go on the Temple of Doom ride by herself.

“What’s the point of these VIP passes if you’re not gonna take advantage of them?” he says as they walk towards Elsa’s castle.

“Right next to you is VIP enough,” she says, and that’s all it takes for him to fall even more in love with her.

It’s a really nice day. The temperature is warmer than usual for early February. There’s no rain or clouds either, only a big bright sun in the sky. He could stay here forever, he thinks, but that fantasy is cut short when Keeley drags him over to a stall.

It’s one of those dart balloon games.

“Look!” Keeley says, pointing at the top.

Roy looks. “Wandering Oaken’s Trading Post and Sauna,” he reads. He glances around. “Where’s the sauna?”

“Don’t be a dolt,” Keeley scolds. “You know what I’m pointing to.”

Underneath the stall’s sign, there’s a row of gigantic Olaf plush toys propped against each other. They’ve got to be at least one and a half metres tall each. One and a half metres is really fucking huge.

“Don’t tell me,” he says, eyeing her. “You want one?”

Keeley smiles. “Pretty please?”

“What happened to the independent woman? Aren’t you gonna try getting one yourself?”

“What’s the point of having a boyfriend if not to exploit his arm strength?”

“I don’t think this game hinges on arm strength.”

“Whatever.” Keeley pushes him towards the leftmost columns of balloons as she fishes out his wallet from his pocket. “How much to win one of those?” she asks the stall keeper.

“You’d need to pop thirty of these fellas,” the stall keeper says, gesturing to the balloons with his thumb. He’s dressed in the same uniform as the real Oaken in the film, apron and all. Unlike Oaken, however, he’s sporting reindeer antlers that poke out of his wool hat. The kid is also scrawny and all limbs. Altogether, he looks like he’s barely out of secondary school.

“Thirty?” Keeley exclaims. “That’s extortion!”

“Sorry, miss,” the stall keeper says, sounding genuinely apologetic. “Them’s the rules.”

“Fucking Disney,” Keeley says. “Well, how much for a dart?”

“Two pounds each, miss. Or you can have three for five.”

Keeley presses her fingers to her temples. “Hold on. You’re telling me that I’d need to shell out fifty pounds at minimum to get one of those.”

“Yes, miss.”

“One of those, which probably costs next to nothing to make.”

The stall keeper smiles nervously.

“Fucking Disney!” Keeley puts her hands on her hips and exhales, her breath forming puffs of clouds in the cold air.

“Ready to give up?” Roy asks.

“No.” Keeley snaps her fingers. “Hey, kid. You know who this is? This is Roy Kent. Greatest footballer in the history of the game. You can cut the greatest footballer in the history of the game a deal, can’t you?”

The stall keeper looks at him. “Um.”

“Ignore her,” Roy says. He snatches his wallet back from Keeley and takes out one hundred pounds, fuck his life, and hands them to the stall keeper. “Here.”

“What’d you do that for?” Keeley demands when the stall keeper gives Roy a basket of sixty darts.

He takes a dart out, pinching it between his thumb and index finger, rolling it around. “Being a good boyfriend?”

“A good boyfriend wouldn’t pay a hundred pounds for an Olaf, that’s just bloody stupid.”

“Do you want the thing or not?”

Keeley rocks back and forth on her toes and sulks. “Yes, please.”

“Okay. Can we agree that we’re moving on if I don’t get to thirty with these?”

“You’re such an idiot.” Keeley smiles, definitely fondly. “Yes.”

Roy grins, then turns to the wall of balloons. In the corner of his eye, he notices the stall keeper giving him a thumbs up. He raises his arm, extending the pointed end of the dart out in front of him, then throws.

And misses the wall completely.

“You sure these aren’t weighted, mate?” he asks the stall keeper.

“Most everybody misses on the first shot,” the stall keeper reassures him.

“Good try, Roy,” Keeley says, clapping enthusiastically. He has a feeling that she doesn’t even want the Olaf that much anymore, is having the time of her life watching Roy Kent show off how terrible his aim is.

One hundred pounds isn’t that high of a price to pay for Keeley’s happiness. He picks up another dart and tries again. And again. And again.

And misses all three times.

After his fifth dart bounces off a balloon without popping it, he whispers to the stall keeper, “Just in case, what’s the smallest prize you have?”

The stall keeper sticks his hand behind the case and rummages around a bit before taking out something white. “You can get this with five balloons,” he says.

It’s a plastic keychain.

“It’s still an Olaf,” the stall keeper says timidly. “Maybe the young miss would like it?”

Roy arches an eyebrow at Keeley, who had gotten her phone out and started filming at some point. Yeah, she’s definitely having the time of her life.

“Alright,” he says. He rolls his neck, picks up another dart, shuts his left eye, and is about to send the thing sailing when a balloon pops in front of him.

A hand smacks him on the back, hard. “And that’s how you do it!”

It’s Jamie.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Roy accuses. He scowls at the balloon wall, then at his basket. “Was that one of mine?”

“You’re welcome,” Jamie gloats. “Keel, you’re really hoping for him to win you something? Don’t you know his aim is shit?”

“Ted would be better at this,” Keeley agrees.

“What’s Lasso got to do with this?” Roy demands.

“Rebecca told me. He’s like this mega-talent at dart-throwing or something.”

“Well, you’re not on a date with Lasso, are you? You’re on a date with me.”

Keeley links her arm with his and rubs soothingly at his shoulder. “Aw, you’re jealous.”

“No, I’m not,” Roy mutters. He glares at Jamie, who’s got the whole baseball cap and sunglasses combination going on, likely to avoid any paparazzi cameras. The mere idea is ridiculous, that Jamie wouldn’t want his picture taken. He’s immediately suspicious. “So?” he presses. “Want to explain yourself?”

Jamie sticks his hands in his jean pockets and cocks his hip to the side. “What? I can’t come to Disneyland?”

“By yourself?”

“I’m not by myself.”

Roy scoffs. “Oh really? Who’s the lucky girl?”

“Not a girl,” Jamie says, grinning. “I’m here with Adrian.”

Keeley lowers her phone—was she recording this entire time?—and says, “Adrian’s here? Where is he?”

“He’s in the toilet. Told him I’d wait for him here. Here he comes.” Jamie raises his hand and waves a boy over. He’s wrapped up in a blue puffer jacket and a checkered scarf, along with a black beanie on his head.

“Adrian!” Keeley squeals, immediately squatting down to hug him. “How’ve you been?”

“Hi,” Adrian says shyly. He notices Roy staring at him and backs away, grabbing onto the hem of Jamie’s jacket.

Jamie puts a hand around Adrian’s shoulders and sighs dramatically. “This is the problem with you, old man. You scare everyone off.”

“I’m not—” Roy cuts off and reminds himself that this is just a kid, like any one of Phoebe’s classmates. He’s good with kids, he tells himself. He extends his hand. “Nice to meet you, Adrian. I’m Roy.”

“I know. You’re Roy Kent,” Adrian says. He accepts his hand hesitantly, then lets out a toothy grin that shoots right through Roy’s heart, goddamn. “I have your poster on my wall.”

Keeley pokes Roy in the side. “Told you you’re timeless.”

Roy continues to stare at Adrian. “How old did you say you were?”

“Nine,” Adrian replies.

The kid wasn’t even old enough to see Roy play during his prime. What the hell is Adrian doing with a poster of _him_? He squints at Jamie, wondering if he put the kid up to this.

“He really does have a poster,” Jamie confirms. “It's a sad situation.”

Adrian peers up at Jamie, confused. “But you gave it to me.”

Roy needs… a moment to unpack that, but he’s not in the right mindset to do so. Instead, he says to Adrian, “So, Jamie is your…”

“Uncle,” Adrian says proudly.

“It’s his birthday today,” is Jamie’s only explanation. “It’s a shame I had to subject him to your piss poor throwing.”

“Are you not good at everything like you are at football?” Adrian asks.

Roy doesn’t know whether to be offended or charmed. “I’m a little rusty,” he says. He holds the basket of darts out to Adrian. “Want to give it a go?”

Adrian looks to Jamie, who nods at the balloon wall.

“Go on, then,” Jamie encourages with a little nudge, which is unexpected, and… huh.

Adrian takes the basket with a grateful smile, then steps up to the stall. The very first dart he throws lands in the middle of the board with a pop.

“Woohoo!” Keeley whoops. “Awesome job!”

Adrian picks up a second dart, throws, and misses. The third one hits a balloon in the corner. The fourth wobbles to a pop, and the fifth manages to pierce through two by the time it tumbles to the ground.

Keeley raises her hand for a high five. “You should’ve come around sooner,” she says, as Adrian high fives her back.

The stall keeper puts a keychain in the middle of Adrian’s gloved palm. “Congratulations,” he tells him.

Adrian studies the keychain for a few moments before holding it out to Keeley. “For you.”

“Aw, aren’t you sweet! Thank you!” Keeley says. She picks it up and gives it a twirl. “I’ll put it on my work bag so it can keep me safe!”

“Careful, or he’ll steal her away from you,” Jamie says to Roy. “He’s got that charmer gene. Runs in us Tartts.”

“Very funny,” Roy says, grinning. It’s a nice day. He doesn’t give a fuck. “I’ve still got fifty of these. Want to split ‘em, see who lands the most?”

Jamie rolls up his sleeves. “You’re on, old man.”

Turns out, Jamie’s first throw was a complete fluke because they end up only popping eight balloons between the two of them. The stall keeper is probably feeling sorry for them. Unfortunately, five of those eight balloons were still Jamie’s contributions.

“Here you go,” Jamie says, offering his prize to Keeley.

“Already got one,” Keeley reminds him, waving her Olaf around.

Jamie dangles the keychain in the air. “Then what am I supposed to do with this?”

“Dunno.” Keeley twirls her keychain round and round her index finger. “Adrian?”

Adrian shakes his head, sheepish. “I don’t actually like _Frozen_.”

Keeley shrugs at Jamie. “Then I guess you keep it.”

“Don’t want it,” Jamie says.

“Then give it to someone else.”

“Who?”

“Your girlfriend.”

Jamie scowls. “Don’t have one.”

Keeley hums. “Boyfriend, then?”

“Keel,” Jamie says, not unkindly. “If I was seeing someone, you’d know.”

“Okay, okay, sorry, I’m messing with you.” Keeley grins. “Give it to Roy, then.”

Roy had been mildly zoning out due to trying to make peace with the fact that he lost to Jamie Tartt in darts, but Keeley’s voice makes him refocus. “No,” he states firmly, the same time that Jamie blurts out “Hell no,” looking properly affronted.

Well, the arse doesn’t have to look that disgusted. Roy’s a bloody catch, he must be doing something right if Keeley’s sticking with him.

Keeley holds both of her hands up, placating, but she’s also visibly stifling her laughter, so her sincerity is doubtful. “Hold your horses, I wasn’t finished. I was gonna say, give it to Roy so he can give it to Phoebe.”

Jamie looks wary but curious. “Phoebe?”

“His niece,” Keeley explains.

“You have a niece?” Jamie says.

“No,” Roy says again.

“You… don’t have a niece?”

“No. I mean, yes, I have a niece, and no, I’m not giving that to Phoebe.”

“Why not? She likes this stuff, doesn’t she?” Keeley asks. “Jamie tosses everything he doesn’t want, and it’d be a waste for something this cute to live out the rest of its life in the rubbish bin.”

Roy never understood the craze surrounding Olaf, had always felt that the hype overshadowed the true stars of the franchise, but then the sequel just _had_ to melt the little fucker in front of his eyes, and it just _had_ to make him feel some feelings. Besides, Keeley is right about one thing—Phoebe does have a strange fondness for the talking snowman, just like every 8 year old in existence.

All of a sudden, Keeley’s argument sounds very convincing. Her smile and pleading eyes might have something to do with it too.

Roy sighs. “Fine,” he says. He holds his hand out to Jamie. “Give it here, then.”

Jamie folds his arms. “What if I don’t want to give it to you?”

“Are you being serious right now? You’re picking this moment to be a prick?”

“This cost a proper hundred quid—”

“I paid for it!”

“—and I’m not giving it up that easily.”

“I honestly don’t give a fuck what you do with it,” Roy says, irritated. “My arm’s getting tired, you gonna toss that or what?”

Keeley waves at them. “Hey, Adrian’s still here. Maybe tone down the language.”

“It’s okay,” Adrian says, very diplomatically. “Uncle Jamie swears all the time. I’m used to it.”

Jamie points to Adrian. “I’ll work on that.” To Keeley, he says, “You take this and throw it away for me,” and loops the keychain hole over her index finger. Then, he turns to Roy and says, “Sorry for wasting your hundred quid.”

Roy rolls his eyes. “Now you’re sorry?”

“You’re taking a day off, aren’t you? So I’m sorry for crashing,” Jamie says. He sounds like he means it, and Roy has no idea what to do with that.

He sticks to what’s expected. “Crashing’s what you do.”

“Ugh,” Keeley says. She shakes Roy lightly and says to Jamie, “What he means is, you’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

And she couldn’t have possibly known what effect her words would have, but the loss to Manchester City, the pushy reporter, the way Jamie’s face closes off, it all comes in fragments. _What were you thinking when Kent left the pitch tonight?_

_What were you feeling?_

Pain rips through his leg anew, and he’s suddenly very close to the ground.

“Roy?” Keeley asks, kneeling down next to him. “Are you alright?”

His knee must’ve given in, the fucking thing. He tries to stand back up, but his legs wobble and he’s sent off-balance, and he would’ve likely found himself heading back to the hospital for a third surgery if not for Jamie leaning his weight against him. He’s an anchor, a solid body, tougher than Roy’s ever been throughout his entire life.

“Take it easy,” Jamie says, his voice close enough for Roy to notice the way it cracks towards the end. “Only stand up when you’re ready.”

Roy squeezes his eyes shut, overwhelmed by the world spinning in front of him. His nose picks up on Keeley’s lilac perfume, a light fragrance that he’s come to associate with home, with safety. She’s still holding on to him, one hand rubbing gentle circles between his shoulder blades, the other intertwined with his left hand, her skin soft against his calluses.

On the opposite end, there’s the stronger cologne coming off of Jamie, the new Calvin Klein line that he’s the face of, a fact that Roy only knows because he’d hid in a department store while waiting for the rain to subside the other day and couldn’t escape Jamie on every advertisement for the bloody thing. Jamie’s hands are on his shoulders for some reason, he’s not sure how they got there, but they’re the only things keeping him from crashing further to the ground. Maybe Jamie is a prick, a rash idiot who jumps into every challenge head-on, but maybe Roy is the same, maybe he’s not that much better when it comes to taking chances.

He curls into himself, tries to close off his senses, but that’s a mistake. Newton’s third law dictates that forces occur in equal pairs. It’s simple on the pitch; he kicks a ball, the ball shoots that force back into his leg. But here, he’s one against two, and his body is rushing to catch up. He knows the weight of Keeley’s curves against his broader frame from their lazy mornings in bed, knows the impact of Jamie’s strength crashing into him on the pitch throughout various training sessions, but those were always separated in space. Now, that space has collapsed into a single point in time, and that’s new, too new for someone as old as him, and he’s—he’s—

“Roy,” Keeley urges again. “Can we do anything?”

 _We_ , is what stands out in that sentence. Roy’s heart is beating too fast, too obvious of a sign. He focuses on the combined warmth of their touch, follows the thread out of the maze.

“Help me up,” he says.

And they do, Keeley with both arms around his waist, Jamie with both hands underneath his arms, and they lift him against gravity.

Maybe crashing’s not so bad so long as there are people willing to pick you up.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. He can’t bring himself to look either of them in the eye. His neck and cheeks are burning hot. If he shows his face, they’ll see.

Keeley envelops him in a hug, bringing him closer. “Want to go home, love?”

Home sounds nice. He leans into her embrace, and nods. “Sorry for—”

 _You’ve nothing to be sorry for_ , Keeley’s voice reprimands sternly in his mind. He takes in a shaky breath, lets it out. “Okay,” he says. “Thanks.” He chances a glance up. “You too.”

Jamie looks… relieved? Roy’s not sure. After getting front row seats to studying Keeley’s facial expressions these past months, he’s lost the opportunity to practice the same thing on Jamie, which is something he hadn’t anticipated missing.

God, what the fuck is wrong with him? Better to leave that buried.

“We’re playing Mönchengladbach next week,” Jamie says, pivoting the topic a little too generously. “You’d better tune in on the telly ‘cause you’ve gotta see how brilliant I am.”

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in my face, why don’t you,” Roy says, but he knows the heat is still pooled inside his cheeks, leaving none for his voice.

“We’ll be cheering you on,” Keeley says. “Isn’t that right, Adrian?”

Adrian nods and takes Roy’s hand. “And we’ll be cheering you on.”

Solid bodies against his own, anchoring him to reality. Yeah. Fucked up knee and all, it’s not a bad day.

The next morning, he wakes up to an empty bed and a note propped up on the nightstand.

_Went in early to take care of some things. Give Phoebe my love when you get the chance. - Keeley <3 _

One of the Olaf keychains is sitting next to the note. Roy picks it up, giving it a spin like he would a top. It rolls off the nightstand and bounces onto the carpeted floor. He sits up, stoops down, holds his weight with his right leg.

The pain remains at bay as he picks up the keychain.

***

+1

_2021, May 5 - matchday 46 of 46 in the 2020/21 EFL Championship_

Just like that, three months pass by, and it’s the final match of the Championship.

It’s approaching the 20th minute, and Norwich City is already two up against them. The first came from merely two minutes in, a miscommunication between defenders that resulted in the backfield parting like the Red Sea for the opponent. The second was a rebound from a Norwich corner in the 17th minute, hitting the crossbar and into the back of the net rather than away from the goal.

Roy’s on the list of substitutes for the very first time. He should be beyond overjoyed, finally being granted the possibility of playing, but nothing about the match makes him want to smile. The last match of the Championship, and he can do nothing but sit on the bench, watching helplessly as those three points drift further and further away from them. They can’t even settle for a tie this time because Norwich, despite having a streak of losses that sent them to the middle of the table at one point, had surged back full force and reclaimed first place late in the season. They’re currently at 90 points. Richmond are at 88.

There’s a glimmer of hope in the 39th minute when Sam takes a ball into the box all by himself, sidestepping defenders like he’s reducing them to dust, but he never gets enough power behind the shot and the Norwich keeper gets a hand on it, an easy save.

One minute is added on at the half, and it’s Richard who sends a beautifully weighted ball in Dani’s direction. The entire bench is jumping up and down, screaming as Dani dodges left and right. The keeper is off his line, he’s made a mistake, Dani’s going to get that shot off, and he does, it’s off his left foot and sailing, sailing, sailing—

Until a Norwich defender leaps out of nowhere and sticks his body between the ball and the goal line, firmly denying Richmond the chance to cut their deficit in half. The ref blows his whistle, and they’re left with forty-five minutes, maybe fifty, to sort themselves out.

The tension is palpable in the locker room. There hasn’t been this much desperation since last season’s match against Manchester City.

Lasso is having a silent conversation with Beard and Nate, probably trying to figure out what they could possibly say. What’s powerful enough to hold Norwich at two goals whilst getting three for themselves? There has to be something left in Lasso’s little optimism playbook. It’s gotten them this far. Think, Kent, Think.

Roy glances around the room. Everyone has their heads hung low, their spirits weary and spent. It breaks his heart. He knows that he can’t be the only one trying to think his way out of the situation, but as much as football is about strategy and skill, it’s also about…

_What were you feeling?_

Roy stands up.

“Hey, the lot of you all,” he hears himself saying. “Why are we here tonight?”

Everyone looks to Lasso, who seems surprised by Roy’s outburst but gestures at him to continue.

Sam, bless his pure heart, raises his hand.

“You don’t have to do that,” Roy says. “But yes?”

“To beat Norwich,” Sam says.

“Okay,” Roy says. “What else?”

“To win the Championship,” Richard offers.

“True. What else?”

“To… be promoted?” Isaac tries.

“Also true,” Roy says. “But even if we lose tonight, we’ll still be promoted. We’ve got enough points.”

As silence settles over the room, Roy thinks about the past season, bookended by his injury and the Championship final. One has already passed, and the other has yet to be determined. But even his knee has healed over time, and here he is, not having yet played a game but on the list of possibilities. And that’s what it’s been about all this time, isn’t it? No result is pre-written. Otherwise, why play football? Why live life?

He thinks about the beginning and the end, but above all, he thinks about the points in between—Keeley’s presence beside his bed, Jamie’s infuriating tendency to stick around despite his best efforts to block him out, transforming a familiar scene into something new.

He thinks about how there hadn’t really ever been a beginning or an end at all, merely the continuous buildup that leads into the future, waiting to be lived with people that he cares about.

“I’ll tell you why I’m here tonight,” he says to the room. “I’m here because I couldn’t finish what I started last year, and I’m here to pay my dues.”

Everyone starts clamouring. “Captain, no—”

“Let me finish,” Roy says. After the murmur subsides, he continues. “I’ve thought a lot about what football means to me while on the sidelines, watching all of you play. I’d always felt I was nothing without the game, that I’d rather die than never touch a ball again.”

“Captain, don’t die,” Colin pleads.

“Nobody’s dying, Colin, that was a figure of speech. Now, I know you all know what happened to me eight years ago. I’d felt the same thing then, too. I was useless, a drag, nothing but dead weight holding my teammates back. But you know what happened? Everyone, they had my back. They held in there all throughout overtime to get us to penalties and guess what? We won. We won the shit out of that. And it wasn’t because we had the best strikers, or the best defenders, or the best keeper. No. All the best skill in the world can’t amount to this.”

He clasps the front of his jersey, right over the Richmond logo. “We had each other. We had the team. Nobody thought it was their singular duty to win the game. I’d forgotten that over the years, but seeing the lot of you improve and get us this far has reminded me what it means to be on a team. And you know what? Without that injury, I would’ve never been transferred to Richmond. So, now I’m here to pay back that debt. We’re a great team, but we could be a fantastic one. That’s what I need all of you to get through your thick skulls, because once we figure that out as a group, all that’s left to make us unstoppable is… Coach, if you’ll please.”

Lasso steps forward and stealthily wipes a tear away. “Believe. All you’ll need to do is believe.”

Roy nods. “What he said. And what does Richmond have more than any other club in all of England?”

Everyone yells in unison, “Belief!”

“And why do we believe?”

Dani stands up. “Because football is life.”

Roy points at him. “And we protect our way of life. Now, let’s stop feeling sorry for ourselves like a bunch of pussies and go kick some Norwich arse!”

The room erupts in cheers and whoops. As they file out one by one, Lasso sidles up next to him.

“Nice speech,” Lasso says. “You just come up with that on the spot?”

“I learned from the best,” Roy says, allowing himself this moment and clapping Lasso on the back. “Come on, Coach. We’ve got a Championship to win.”

The moment the whistle opens the second half, Roy can tell that the energy is completely different from before. There’s no wild running up and down the sides of the pitch, no wayward passes or attempts to play a perfect game. There’s simply the team, connecting plays like one would connect dots on a piece of paper. Anybody could do it—all you’d need is a pencil to draw in the lines.

Richard’s the one who gets them going in the 56th minute. Colin had tumbled to the ground after being challenged on, but the ref waved no foul, and Richard had stolen the ball back, directing a quick pass to Dani who had timed his run perfectly up the right side. The Norwich defenders didn’t see him at all, being too preoccupied with Sam in midfield, thinking that he’d be the main target considering the record-setting season he’s having.

But that’s the thing with being too player-focused, right? Even opponents tend to forget that they’re playing against a single team and not eleven people thrown together. That’s how Dani catches Norwich off guard, with defenders running like hell to get back, but it’s ultimately a one-on-one, and once Dani finds himself in a one-on-one situation with the keeper, he never loses.

The ball curves over the keeper, a few centimetres away from the furthest reach of the keeper’s glove. Its parabola is perfect, its final target, true.

The Richmond stadium goes out of its bloody mind, and they’re still down one. Roy can only imagine what sort of decibels an equaliser can tease out of this crowd.

He gets his answer ten minutes later, when a sequence of quick passes that began as O’Brien’s goal kick ends up at Sam’s feet on the other end, two yards away from the Norwich goal line. It’s a simple touch in from there, and everyone, including Roy, looks to the sidelines, but the linesman keeps his flag down, and Roy is watching his teammates piling onto Sam in celebration as the fans’ roars rumble the stands, vibrating deep in his heart.

Just one more to go.

Both sides defend their halves well as they enter only three minutes of stoppage time. The team looks exhausted, but not the kind that’s soul-crushing, no—one look at everyone’s faces, and Roy can tell that they’re hungry for more.

He’s got that feeling in his gut again, the kind that slowly works itself to a win. So, when Lasso comes over and tells him he’s subbing him on for Isaac, it’s a quick decision to make, easy and simple.

“I think the lads have this in the bag,” Roy says.

“But it’s all you’ve wanted this season,” Lasso inquires.

Roy looks out at the pitch, at this beautiful team that he’s so proud of, and shakes his head. “Not anymore, it’s not.” There will be chances for him in the future. Right now, it’s all about Sam and Isaac and Richard and everyone else—it’s their time, and he wants nothing more than to go into next season’s Premier League with this group of champions.

Lasso smiles and gives him a salute. “Yes, O Captain my Captain!”

Last year, Roy probably would’ve rolled his eyes and told Lasso to fuck off. Now, he salutes back and mirrors his grin, meaning every bit of it.

After wrestling himself out of a massive group hug and brushing the bursts of confetti out of his face, Roy makes his way off of the pitch and heads directly for the VIP box. It’s an absolutely crazy crowd, with Richmond fans tossing popcorn and candy wrappers and, occasionally, each other into the air as the _2020/21 EFL Championship_ champions banner billows in the wind. “Championship Champions” is rather redundant to say, but that’s what Richmond are, and who the fuck is caring about semantics at this point?

He deftly avoids the press as he runs into the clubhouse— _Why did you decide to stay on the bench? What are your thoughts on Richmond’s performance tonight? How do you see your role moving forward to the 2021/22 Premier League season?_ —because none of those questions are important compared to his destination. Turns out, he doesn’t have far to go because Keeley meets him halfway. She all but leaps into his arms, sending them nearly crashing into the trophy display box.

“You trying to pop open my injury?” Roy says, laughing.

“Just keeping you on your toes,” Keeley says, matching his laughter with her bubbly giggles. She presses a kiss to his lips, and he breathes in. Lilac perfume, soft skin. She withdraws after a moment, keeping her hands wrapped around his neck. “So, Mr. Kent? How are you feeling?”

“Bloody fantastic,” he answers, and leans in for another kiss as he finds that it’s true, all true.

He wakes up to the sun shining in his eyes, a sense of contentment, and a massive hangover. Once everyone had managed to escape all of the reporters, they went out and hit the pubs, singing AFC Richmond’s club song at the top of their lungs as they wandered down the streets. Fans who weren’t at the game but caught it elsewhere cheered them on and hovered around them like bees.

Needless to say, they all got supremely and positively pissed. He’s not sure when he and Keeley made it home. 4 AM?

He’s considering staying in bed all day, fuck being a responsible adult, when he wakes up a little more and picks up on murmurs coming from downstairs. Bleary-eyed, he cracks his neck before sticking his arm underneath the covers, trying to dig out the shirt he lost amidst last night’s… activities. He finally finds his worn plain grey tee on the floor. His shorts, he locates at the top of the lamp in the corner of the room.

He’s in the middle of a yawn as he turns the corner at the bottom of the stairs, nearly tripping on the throw rug when he sees who’s sitting in the kitchen.

“Oh, hi Roy,” Keeley says. She points across the table. “Jamie’s coming over.”

“Yeah, I see that,” Roy says. He’s getting a severe sense of deja vu as he stifles his second impending yawn and rubs at his temples. God, his head is _hurting_. He stares at the kitchen table, occupied by one body too many. Jamie is still as a statue, his attention focused on the bowl of fruit sitting in the middle of the table.

Roy ignores him and says to Keeley, “You’re in my seat.”

“Don’t be so archaic.” Keeley pats the chair—the one that’s usually hers—at the end of the table. “Come sit with us. I made you coffee.”

Roy considers turning around and going back up the stairs, but decides that would be like yielding—and Roy Kent doesn’t yield. Besides, the kitchen smells delicious, swirling with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, so it’d be a bloody waste if he left before getting a taste of that.

“Coffee,” he agrees. He keeps his eyes fixed warily on Jamie as he makes his way over, running through everything he wants to say. _What the fuck are you doing here? Is this gonna be a regular thing from now on? Are you a permanent fixture in my life? Why aren’t you looking at me?_ He’s so distracted that by the time he gets to the table and sits down, he almost knocks over the coffee waiting there for him.

“Hey, careful with that,” Keeley says. _Why isn’t she addressing the elephant in the room? Did she know Jamie was coming over? Is he hallucinating? What the bloody hell’s going on?_

Coffee. He needs coffee.

Roy picks up the mug and inhales deeply—a rich dark roast with a hint of vanilla, no cream or sugar, exactly the way he likes it—and is about to take a generous sip when something else on the table catches his eye. He blinks, then sets the mug back down next to the offending item.

“What’s that?” he hears himself ask.

Jamie finally budges. “What’s it look like?” he throws back.

Keeley groans and kicks at Jamie underneath the table.

“Fuck’s sake, Keel!” Jamie yelps—loud, too loud—and rubs at his calf. “What was that for?”

Keeley glares at him, then nods her head in Roy’s direction.

Jamie shifts uncomfortably, crossing his arms until he’s folded himself into a smaller shape. It’d be a hilarious sight under any other circumstance, absolutely worth having a laugh over, if not for the fact that Roy doesn’t feel like laughing. Jamie’s wearing that cologne again, and Roy is brought back to that day in the amusement park. Newton’s third law, equal and opposite forces, two solid bodies tethered to his own.

“Jamie,” he says, and it’s actually really fucking weird to be saying that to Jamie’s face, especially in such a domestic situation. He’s always called him _prick_ , _twat_ , _arse_ , anything other than his name, but it slips out and it feels a little weird, a little foreign, but it’s also more natural than he’d expected. It feels…

Normal.

“Jamie,” Roy repeats carefully, rolling the vowels on his tongue. “What is that?”

Jamie averts his eyes. “I brought you a coffee.”

Roy opens the lid and peers into the styrofoam cup, careful to not let the liquid slosh out. Dark rich roast, hint of vanilla, no sugar or cream. He stares back into his mug, which he now realises is only half-full even though he hadn’t actually drunk any of it.

“This your doing?” he asks Keeley, who has been suspiciously quiet this entire time.

Keeley shrugs and sips at her own mug, which is answer enough. She’s always been one step ahead of everyone else.

Fine. Fuck it. Fuck it!

Roy picks up the styrofoam cup. “I’d like the record to reflect that this is the cheesiest fucking thing I’ve ever done. You two have some explaining to do,” he says, then pours until he fills his mug to the brim. When he’s done, he turns to Keeley, who has delight written all over her face. “I blame you.”

“Come on, it wasn’t that bad,” Keeley finally says.

“It was horrible,” Jamie mutters.

“You’re really fucking terrible with words, you know that?” Roy says.

Jamie lets out an irritated snort. “Shut the fuck up, like you’re any better.”

“Look,” Roy says, stretching his patience, “I’m happy to do this all day, or you can quit the bullshit and tell me what you’re really doing here. I know you’ve got better things to do than come all the way here just to deliver a coffee.”

Jamie opens his mouth, then promptly closes it. He looks desperately to Keeley, as obvious an SOS as Roy’s ever seen. She refuses to engage, continuing to sip at her coffee, clearly bent on Jamie handling this on his own. She’s proper scary when she wants to be. Roy never wants to get on her bad side.

“About what you asked,” Jamie starts. He stops, picks at his sleeves, shuffles around his seat a bit, then continues: “It’s because I wasn’t ready.”

Roy runs those words through his mind, and comes out the other end utterly confused. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Jamie huffs, as though Roy has massively inconvenienced him. “You asked why I apologised to Keel and not you. And now I’m telling you, it’s because I wasn’t ready. By the time I was, it had been a month, so I wanted to—you know.”

Roy takes that in, lets the past year flow through him. It’s pretty obvious in hindsight. He says, “No, I don’t know. Care to explain?”

“Fuck you, I know you know what I’m talking about.”

“Yeah, you’re a proper coward for delivering apologies through Keeley, that’s what.”

Keeley raises her mug. “I’ll toast to that.”

Jamie runs a hand through his hair, messing up the gel and styling. “I know, alright? But I just—they said you might not recover, and I thought—and then you didn’t play any of the matches, not even last night, and I know you were on the roster, right? Don’t fuck with me, I know you were, and it’s been so fucking long, and—” He sighs. “I thought it was gonna be like Chelsea again, but worse. And this time, it’d be my—it’d be my fault.”

Roy finds himself softening despite his best effort against it. A distant memory flashes in his mind, one of phantom pain in his leg, and he says, one year late, but nonetheless true: “You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

Jamie doesn’t look satisfied. Of course he doesn’t. He operates assuming he’s irrevocably correct, that his spear can pierce through any wall. That’s the type of person he is. That’s the type of player he is.

Roy’s got a wall of his own, but he lets it down for Jamie, just this once. “Listen. I know you hoped I’d drop dead but…” He picks up his mug and takes a long sip. “I’m still here. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

He sees the moment Jamie registers those words, a toast over two cheap bottles of beer. The dam breaks, and Jamie says, through bouts of incredulous laughter, “You’re such an arse, you know that?”

And Roy says—fuck it, fuck it!—through his own laughter, “Takes one to know one.”

“Aw, look at you two,” Keeley finally pipes up, all but cooing. “This is adorable. I should’ve brought my camera to document the occasion.”

Roy tosses her a long-suffering look, but he gives himself away by smiling at the end. “Finally deciding to join the conversation, are you?”

“Yeah, and I’ve a bone to pick with you, Jamie Tartt.” Keeley points her spoon at him. “Where’s my coffee, huh? I told you to buy me one too!”

“I brought you one last time!” Jamie reminds her.

“That was over a year ago!” Keeley crosses her arms, feigning indignance. “A girl helps a guy out and this is the repayment she gets? Fucking men.”

“I’ll bring it to you next time, that good enough?” Jamie placates.

Next time? Roy is amazed that Jamie says it without batting an eye, and even more so by the realisation that he’s looking forward to it.

But because he’s still Roy, and Jamie is still Jamie, and Keeley is still Keeley and knows better than to expect, well, better from them, Roy says, “If you lose to West Ham tonight, you’ll owe us the number of coffees equal to the number of goals made.”

“Why?” Jamie asks, offended. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Incentive for making sure you stay in the Premier,” Roy says. And because he’s feeling fucking fantastic, he adds, “No point in playing if I don’t have your arse to beat on the pitch, is there?”

Because hey, his knee was originally thought to be beyond hope, but he’s still here, isn’t he? He’s still walking, still kicking, still alive. He’s got a Champions League and now a Championship title under his belt, has the most wonderful team to return to, has the kindest girlfriend and the most infuriatingly talented rival to keep him moving forward.

He’s still got a Premier League title to win. Whatever happens, it’ll be one hell of a ride.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for sticking around ‘til the end! I wrote this as a “goodbye 2020” present for myself, and for anyone who enjoys this trio. It turned out to be mostly established Keeley/Roy + Jamie with hints of future poly, but I had an absolute blast writing it, and I hope that you found something you enjoyed. Ted Lasso is such a lovely little show and I am beyond excited to see what they have in store for us in seasons two and three.


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